


I'll Be Anything You Need

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Series: I Suffer(ed) From The Birdcage Syndrome [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad Touch Chancellor, Blood, Dissociation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, M/M, MT!Prompto, Objectification, Orgasm Denial, POV Second Person, Pre-Pieces, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Traumatic Stress, cyborg AU, non consensual d/s, servitude, sex for reward, some drinking, traumatic events
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 16:44:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12369855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: 01987 returns to Gralea with the Chancellor, and finds his calling goes far deeper than just a few weeks abroad.





	I'll Be Anything You Need

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken again from Ryan And Leigh's "Birdcage Syndrome", the demo version. 
> 
> And THAAANK YOU to invisibledeity for being my beta and editor.

You check over every piece of your armor, making sure each is perfectly placed and secure. You go through and tighten their straps, a movement as familiar as breathing, and ensure it all matches protocol. You want to make the best impression on your commanders upon returning to Gralea.

At last, an end to this confusing and unpleasant assignment. You can return to standard drills, to training and injections and punishments. Safe, normal activities.

You won't have to kneel and stare into golden eyes any longer.

The Chancellor enters his quarters only barely, placing his hand on the doorframe. He extends his other out to you. You finish retying your polished greaves, and force yourself to take it.

"Have we docked, sir?" you ask, unable to contain your anxiety.

"That we have, my dear. Oh, I simply cannot wait to be home."

The ramp to the dropship opens, revealing a landing pad at sunset. Blocky gray buildings sit, not too far in the distance. Cold air rushes in, raising up bumps on the uncovered skin of your face.

"I'm quite used to the dropship's quarters by now, due to how often they make me travel, but nothing is yet to replace the comfort of my home, sweet home."

He rambles on as the two of you enter the car waiting nearby, sliding into the backseat together. He doesn't let up to tell the driver where to go, but the car starts to move anyway.

"...I'm sure you'll agree," you catch, tuning back into what he's talking about.

"Agree with what, sir?" Hopefully he hasn't noticed you zoned out.

"My bed, dear. It's quite comfortable, and I think you would like it."

The comment is so odd, you can't help but think of laughing.

"I don't recharge in beds."

"Ah...true. Perhaps that will change, tonight."

You feel a sinking feeling in your chest.

"Aren't..." Your voice fails you, but you persist. "Aren't you taking me back to the training facility?"

"And why would I do that?"

"My assignment. I protected you, on the trip. It's over now. Aren't you taking me back?"

"01987," he says, lacing his fingers through yours, "I do hope you realize your assignment as my personal MT did not _only_ cover this trip. You'll be returning home with me, where your services will continue to be greatly appreciated."

You can't say anything to that. Just a mumbled, "Yes sir," as you divert your attention out the window at the sky's fading light.

"Come now, don't be like that." He tilts your head back towards his. "I'm allowing you to sleep, or shall I say, _recharge_ , in my own bed tonight, aren't I?"

He's right. The floor has been serviceable, but here he is offering you an opportunity most MTs would probably jump for, if given the chance.

"You are. Thank you, Chancellor."

He squeezes your hand tight.

"You are most welcome."

  
******

  
Chancellor Izunia lives in a 'penthouse', the biggest living quarters you have ever seen in your life.

The place perches on top of a lavish building built up of similar living spaces, each of which apparently belong to other workers in the Empire. From what you can tell, it's a bit like the room with cots you recharged in every night before you came under the Chancellor's care, with each person assigned a specific place. It all makes sense. It's the first thing with any order to it that you've seen in the outside world.

The inside of the penthouse, on the other hand, is pure chaos.

Coats, shirts, and various frilly clothes are strewn everywhere, over mismatched chairs and couches and tables. There seems to be a vague red and gold theme running through the decor of the place, but it's broken up by a silver dresser here, a blue end table there, an orange-brick fireplace in the center of the sitting area. Small objects and baubles with no discernible purpose fill every corner.

The Chancellor steps in, and spreads his arms wide.

"Ah. Home at last."

He puts his hat on a nearby pole, the only neat thing in the entire giant room. He shuts the door behind where you stand overwhelmed by visual input.

"Tch." He shakes his head. "You don't have to stare. I'm afraid it's always been in my nature to leave things a bit worse than when I found them."

He walks into a room in the left wall, motioning for you to follow. You comply.

This one is a bit smaller than the first but equally messy, making it feel suffocating. A large, circular table sits in the center of the room, with both of its matching chairs pulled out. Dishes sit stacked on its surface, stained and smelling terrible. You give it a wide berth.

The Chancellor, meanwhile, walks across the wooden floors of the room and around obstacles to a series of counters filled with various electronics. Specifically, he wanders to a skinny cupboard, about the same height as himself, and rummages around inside.

"Aha," he sounds triumphantly, and comes out with a dark colored bottle.

He places it on the countertop closest to where you stand, and moves to a different cupboard, leaving the other wide open.

He places two cups—you think that's what they're called?—next to the bottle. The rims sparkle in the room's lights. They're the cleanest thing you've seen since arriving.

"I don't suppose you've had wine before, have you, 01987?" he asks, now pawing through a nearby drawer.

"No, sir."

He pulls a scary looking object out, pointed and metal. He notices you, still hovering near the entrance to the room.

"What are you doing all the way over there? Come closer, dear."

You draw towards him. He sticks the pointed metal thing in the top of the bottle, and after some struggle, pours a dark red liquid into the glasses. It matches his hair, which worries you.

"What is this again?" You try to keep the tremble out of your voice.

"Wine," he says, lifting a cup and pushing the other towards you.

You look down in, at the dark liquid. You see an outline of a face there, yours, but it's hard to make out. "Is it...blood?"

He nearly chokes while drinking. He pulls the cup away from his face, laughing. "No, no, wine is most certainly not blood. It's a drink. An often celebratory drink!"

"Celebratory," you repeat. "What are we celebrating?"

"Why, a safe and productive trip, of course! Not to mention your first time in a bed."

He raises his cup, and motions for you to do the same. You attempt to grip it like he is, and lift it up successfully, even if it's a bit tricky with your armor.

"To _us_. Now, you repeat it."

"To...us."

The Chancellor brushes your cups together with a soft _clink_. You bring yours back down, while he takes a long pull of his drink.

"Are you not going to have any?"

Your eyes dart from him to the cup and back again.

"Are MTs allowed to drink wine?"

He places a hand on your shoulder. "Let us forget the rules this once, shall we?"

"Yes, sir."

Hesitance sits at the top of your chest like a weight, but you bring the cup to your lips anyway, and swallow some.

It's awful.

You splutter and spit a little, trying to get the sour taste out. You feel like it might have been sweet at some point, but surely isn't anymore.

You set the cup down, in front of you.

"I'm sorry," you cough.

The Chancellor breathes out, through his nose. "Why don't we retire to the bedroom for the night, hm?"

He takes your hand, holding his wine in the other.

Back into the haphazard main area and through a door parallel to the penthouse's entrance, is the bedroom.

The title is appropriate; that's the first thing you think. A bed lies in the center, pushed against the far wall, and that's mostly it. Some more clothes lie around, and there's a small table next to where the bed's elaborate headboard sits. The place sits at number two of "cleanest thing in penthouse", beside the cups.

The second thing you think is: _finally_. You can rest and recharge for whatever awaits you in the morning.

You break off from his grip, and walk swiftly to the end of the bed. The blankets and sheets are a shade lighter than the wine, smoothed out on the mattress. It reminds you of the one from Tenebrae in both size and grandeur.

"01987," the Chancellor calls patiently.

You raise your head and find him sitting on the bedside, near the small table.

"What is it you're doing?"

You thought that was obvious. "I'm...examining the bed. I'd like to recharge now. Sir."

"Mm," he takes a sip of wine, "before that. I would like to try something new, with you."

He runs his pointer finger along the rim of the cup. The movement is hypnotic.

"What is it?"

He puts the same finger to his chin, lost in mock thought.

"I would like to see you naked."

You freeze.

Naked. So, without...without anything on. No armor, no uniform.

You feel like you're going to vomit.

"Now?" you ask, hoping and praying to whatever god listening that he's joking.

"Now, please," he affirms.

Your breaths start to come quickly, even as you nod. "Yes, Chancellor."

The gauntlets are the first things to go, then the gloves, then your chest plate. You work as meticulously as you did earlier, this time unfastening the pieces of heavy metal and setting them by the foot of the bed.

You close your eyes. Maybe the armor will be enough.

"I think you might be forgetting something." He traces your uniform's side, along the seam.

You inhale, attempting to steady yourself, before sliding the remaining clothing off your body.

When you're done, there's silence. You keep your eyes closed.

The bed creaks with movement after a few minutes. You hear his cup set somewhere and the rustling of his coat, among other things. When the bed creaks again, closer to where you stand at the end of it, hands press down on your shoulders.

Something moves towards your mouth, and devours it. You open your eyes in shock to see the Chancellor leaning in close, and using his mouth to touch yours. It feels overwhelming, the movement is alien, he tastes like that disgusting wine and oh gods, you think he's _licking_ you—

He pulls away a moment later, capturing your hands and pulling you onto the bed with him.

You look down at his body to find that he's naked, just like you. You're already familiar with the upsetting sight of his penis, hard to the touch and curling into the air, but there are other things that stand out to you as well. The thick mat of red that springs out of his chest, for one, and the well defined muscles of his arms, usually hidden by layers of fabric. Has he gone through training too?

He circles his arms around your back and pulls you closer to his chest before bringing your mouths together again. What are you supposed to do during this? Match his movements?

Your tongue darts across his lower lip, and he exhales into you before pulling away.

He gives you a look, one that always means trouble. He drags his hands down your back, and grabs the fat part of your bottom to give it a squeeze.

"I do so love a good ass," he mumbles.

He looks where his hands are, and finds your limp penis lying there. He moves one hand off your bottom and to the member, dragging a finger down its length.

Low, low, in your stomach, something stirs.

One finger suddenly turns into his whole hand, curled around and fondling until you start to ache and crave his touch.

This must be how his feels when he asks you to suck it. You're torn between understanding and horror.

"Does that feel good?" His movement around your penis gets sharper and faster.

You can't find words. It's like your vocabulary has gone missing, replaced only by noises that you know you can't form coherent sentences with.

"Y-yea—aah," you manage to get out, and you hope it suffices. The Chancellor uses his whole fist to squeeze the head of your penis, and you cry out from the shockwaves of pleasure it sends up your body.

Your excitement only grows as he continues. You feel the body part begin to twitch the longer it goes on, and you make louder and louder noises until—

The Chancellor draws his hand away, leaving your body confused and disoriented. You writhe in his lap, trying desperately to chase your pleasure, find something to replace his hand. You realize that you have hands too, and decide to finish the job yourself when he grabs your wrist.

"Not today, I'm afraid."

He grabs ahold of your other one, but his gaze lingers on your right wrist, where your code print is tattooed. He drags his thumb over the lines of black before putting his mouth to it and sucking.

At the first nip, you squeal and try to pull yourself free. He removes his mouth, luckily, but his grip grows tighter. He lifts both of your arms high in the air, shuffles out from under you, and spins you around so that you're lying back on the bed.

"There are a few rules here, 01987, that you should take to heart."

He switches so he's holding both your wrists with one hand, as he reaches off the bed towards a nearby pile of discarded clothing.

"Rule number one," he begins, coming back with a scarf, "you are not allowed to touch yourself."

Your breath catches in your throat as he wraps the fabric around your wrists and pulls. Your hands start to tingle as he ties the remaining scarf to the headboard, high above you.

He readjusts, kneeling on either side of your abdomen and making eye contact with you.

"Rule number two: anything I do is for my pleasure, and mine alone."

His eyes glint. He leans in once more to press your mouths together, and you can't scramble away.

The previously tidy bedding is at this point becoming a mess. The Chancellor wipes the hand he used on you against the scarlet sheets, and leans over to search the folds of fabric, retrieving a small tube. The now slightly less sticky appendage finds its way back to your bottom, underneath your penis. It traces its way downwards until it finds what it's looking for.

There's a hole there. You never knew that.

He moves his hand away, returning his attention to the tube he found. You're wondering what purpose the hole could serve, and why you've never known of its existence until now, when a cold, slimy finger presses against it.

It pushes in.

You yell in a mixture of shock, pain, revulsion, and a little thrill of pleasure that makes the matter of your abandoned penis worse. You look down to find his whole finger in there, twisting around.

You bite your lip. The sensation is uncomfortable until he seems to find what he's looking for, and then for a moment your body shudders with pure satisfaction. You pull against the scarf, wishing he would touch your penis again, even for a second.

He takes the finger out, and you watch his movements this time as he squeezes the contents of the tube, more of it, onto both his index and middle fingers. You should be less surprised when he then plunges both into you.

It hurts so much more with two fingers, and you feel as if he's trying to make the hole wider for whatever reason. He pushes the two in deeper, not quite to the pleasure spot like last time, leaving you with nothing but pain. Your eyes start to water, but you cannot afford to cry. MTs don't cry. You learned that lesson the hard way, long ago.

Instead you get out, "What are you doing?"

The Chancellor looks up from his work, pausing momentarily. His fingers sit there, and somehow the lack of movement is even worse.

"Preparing you, dearest. It's only common courtesy." He pats your cheek.

Preparing? Preparing for what?

The revelation, when it comes after a few minutes more of this process, makes your stomach feel like it's sinking into the bed.

You can't possibly take his penis in there. It's too big, too wide around, and whatever those fingers are doing will never be able to prepare you for that. You can barely fit the whole thing in your mouth on a _good_ day, how can he possibly think-

But it's too late. He slides his fingers out of you, and when he uses the tube again, it's for preparing the thing you want to think about least.

Your hands have gone numb.

It's a strange thing to focus on as he lines himself up with the hole in the back of your body, but it's an odd feeling. The trainers back at the facility did many things to you, disciplined you many times, but you don't think you've ever felt a part of yourself outright lose feeling before. You even try tugging against the scarf a little bit, but find that your compromised position, lack of strength, and the numbness all prevent it.

Then your world explodes with pain, and you start to scream.

The Chancellor's hands, one still half slick from being inside your hole, clamp over your mouth.

"Rule number three," he pants, "you make another noise like that, and I _will_ be putting tape over that delicious mouth of yours. Do you understand?"

You nod, eyes wide. Sweat is starting to leak down your forehead.

"Good."

When he moves his hands you catch a glimpse of his work, and find he's only half in.

His penis is only half inside you.

Is he trying to kill you? Is this a punishment? Have you not protected him or sucked him off well enough up until this point?

He pushes in further, groaning the way he does when he's enjoying himself. You feel like your body's going to be torn in half.

"01987," he derides, "I thought I told you to stop making those noises."

Oh, gods. Were you making noise? You didn't even notice. You bite your lower lip, harder than before.

He scoops up your legs. The penis slides further in until it's completely swallowed up, and he curls your legs around his shoulders. It feels like the entire lower half of your body is on fire.

You don't think this situation could get any worse—the burning sensation, your hole stretched and filled, your numb hands, and the blood you just realized is coating your bitten lip—until he starts to move.

The Chancellor pulls out a little, and then quickly shoves himself back in, like he does when he's in your mouth. It's an infinitely worse process under these circumstances, and every retract, thrust, retract, thrust, has you struggling to keep your whines of pain and unwilling pleasure quiet.

At one point, he leans down to press your lips together again. When he comes back up, the sight of him looming over you with your blood on his face makes you dizzy.

While the some of the sickening, painful satisfaction is renewed with every thrust, it begins to fade to the background. This is something that happens after you sustain a particularly intense punishment—it's like your mind boxes up all the different sensory inputs you face at the current moment and shoves them into a storage closet somewhere.

You drift, in a way, with everything dulled like this. Your head lolls to the side.

You notice the Chancellor has a shelf with books by his bed. You're not allowed to read books. MTs don't read anything but the reports placed in front of them, just like they don't cry, or talk back, or refuse a superior's orders, or commit anything resembling treason...

The thrusts become more harried and desperate, and you snap back just enough to look towards the Chancellor. A sweat sheen of his own has appeared on his face, those blood red curls sticking just beside his eyes. He thrusts once more and you feel something besides his penis fill you up, a hot liquid. _Semen_ , he had told you once.

The remembered word drifts through your mind as he lays himself on top of you, chest heaving. Your legs twitch where they lie curling over his shoulders, and slowly start to slip off onto the bed beside your sprawled bodies.

After a deep inhale, he sits up on his elbows. Their points dig into your ribs.

"Rule number four," he breathes out, eyes fluttering closed, "you're to do this for me whenever I should want it. Consider it-" he heaves a breath, "-a vital part of your assignment."

You feel some of the semen slipping in between his penis and your skin, out of the hole and onto the bed.

You break.

Years of practice, years of punishments and beatings and conditioning, and it's all for naught. As the tears slip down your cheeks and your breathing gets ragged, you wish with everything you have you had just been left to die on your cot from your injuries.

He pulls out and gets off the bed to stand, ignoring you as he walks out of the room. You sob as more semen trickles from your sore hole.

The Chancellor returns in less than a minute, with a roll of tape.

"I asked you quite nicely not to make those distressed noises," he sighs, "but you chose not to listen to me."

You sniffle, your nose already stuffed up.

"Wh...why...?"

The Chancellor looks up from peeling the thick, silver tape.

"My," he erupts into a toothy grin, "what a loaded question. I don't think it really matters, does it? After all, you _are_ mine, unless you'd like to suggest reassignment and face possible decommissioning. Your choice."

He cuts the end of the tape still attached to the roll with his teeth, and smooths the sticky side over your lips. It dampens your crying quite a lot.

"Well." He gets up from the bed again, stretching. "I'm off to take a shower. What we did was quite messy, was it not?"

He winks, retrieves his wine, and walks away.

  
******

  
The bed shifts underneath you, waking you from a fitful recharging. The tape still covers your mouth but you can hear yourself whimper, eyes darting across the now dark bedroom.

"Shh...shh..."

Hands find yours, and untie the scarf around your wrists. They bring them carefully down into the bed with the rest of your body, and afterwards a blanket is pulled up around you.

Arms encircle your waist, and your muffled whimpers worsen. The Chancellor's chest presses up against your back, and he holds your hands again, easing them through the pins-and-needles feeling they face.

"I do hope you're enjoying the bed."

He presses his lips to the back of your neck.

"Sweet dreams, my dearest."

The tape remains.


End file.
